


Reentry

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Established Relationship, Hiatus, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-01
Updated: 2004-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris leaves the message on his voice mail for three weeks. Twenty-three days, to be exact. He doesn't listen to it, not after he hears it once, but every time he checks his messages, it's there, and he deliberately skips over it to get to the latest ones. He doesn't save it, either. He just keeps it there, pretending to ignore it as he goes about his everyday life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reentry

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to E, A, J and D for reading and pointing out where things didn't flow or fit. And original thanks to C, who nagged me into listening to the song and didn't even get her basez in return. The song in question is _I Don't Know You Anymore_, by Savage Garden.

Chris leaves the message on his voice mail for three weeks. Twenty-three days, to be exact. He doesn't listen to it, not after he hears it once, but every time he checks his messages, it's there, and he deliberately skips over it to get to the latest ones. He doesn't save it, either. He just keeps it there, pretending to ignore it as he goes about his everyday life.

It didn't say much, only a quick hello, and then, _I, uh, was just calling because it feels like forever since we talked. Nothing big going on here, I just, shit. I miss hanging out, man. Call me. Or yeah, whatever._

On the twenty-third day, Chris comes in from his morning run, and quickly, before he can talk himself out of it, hits speed dial one, completely aware of the irony that yes, it's still number one, that not even after a year has Chris changed something even this small. The call goes through to voice mail on the other end, which Chris was counting on, and he says simply, "You know where I live."

Three nights later, when he comes home from dinner with his mom, there's a strange Harley in his driveway, and Justin's asleep on the hammock by the pool.

***

Justin wakes at the first touch, alert and composed, and if Chris hadn't seen him do it for years, he'd think Justin had been only pretending to sleep. Instead, he knows that it means Justin is uncomfortable and unsure of himself. Chris hands him a beer and goes to sit on the edge of the pool.

"Nice bike," he says.

"I'm just trying it out," Justin answers, rolling out of the hammock with familiar grace and joining Chris, sitting on the other side of the pool steps. The shadows from the underwater lights cross his face and the long line of his neck when he tilts his head back to drink. "Haven't been on it much, but the ride is good."

Chris can do this. Justin was right, it has been a long time since they've talked and Chris had almost convinced himself that he didn't miss it, but now he knows how wrong he was. If this polite social BS is what it takes to have Justin in his life, Chris can do it.

***

Justin turns down a second beer. "Driving," he says, and that's how Chris finds out that Justin's only visiting, like a normal person. As odd as that is, as wrong as it feels down deep, Chris is relieved. Now, at least, he has a reference for how the night should go. It's like any other night that somebody comes over to hang.

"Hey," Chris says. "Did you hear about the place that opened up a couple of months ago down on Orange?"

Justin shakes his head. "I haven't talked to anyone else here yet," he says. "Vinyl?"

Chris smiles. "You know it."

"Did you leave anything for anyone else?"

"Nothing worthwhile," Chris cackles.

Justin laughs, "Show me, man," and it's so close to the way things used to be, Chris can persuade himself that it really is.

***

It's three in the morning before Justin stretches and says he needs to go. Chris has had a couple more beers since they came inside, but Justin has been drinking Coke. It's not until Chris has lain awake until the sun lightens the sky that he lets himself remember how sweet Justin's mouth always tasted under the pop and how the caffeine used to buzz through the long, lean muscles.

***

Chris never asks why Justin's in Florida, but for a kid who never understood the meaning of vacation, Justin doesn't seem to have much to do. He comes by every day, always calling first. Even with that strangeness--no one ever calls, they just show up; it's the only house rule Chris has ever had--Chris finds just hanging out with Justin easier than he ever expected it to be. It doesn't matter if Chris has family or friends running around the place, Justin slides in among them, shoots hoops, plays video games, lifeguards when the little kids are in the pool, takes out the trash when it's overflowing. He's always got a smile or a story or a joke for the crowd and a kiss for Chris's mom.

Chris sees how neatly Justin could fit himself back into Chris' life, how neatly he almost _is_ fitting, even if Chris can feel how the edges don't quite match up anymore. Justin feels it, too; Chris can see that, even if nobody else notices. Chris jokes around during the day, plays like everything is great, but in the really late part of the night, he makes sure he remembers why he hasn't let himself think about things for a year.

***

On the last morning, Justin doesn't call; he's just waiting at the kitchen table when Chris comes downstairs in his boxers and t-shirt to make coffee. His helmet is sitting next to him on the table and he's wearing leathers, old ones, ones that Chris is surprised still fit him. He had to have gotten them right after they won the lawsuit; Chris remembers giving him shit about how new they were. Maybe they only look the same, because it feels like there's no way the man Justin's become could still fit into the boy's clothes.

"Coffee's hot," Justin says. He's quiet, serious, no smiles or jokes this morning, but then, Chris knows that none of that has really ever been for Chris, not this visit, not since the first night.

"Thanks," Chris says, and kills a few seconds with the milk and sugar before he has to turn back to the table.

Without looking up, Justin says, "Thanks for, y'know, letting me hang this week."

Chris sits down slowly. "You're welcome. So this is good-bye?"

"Yeah." Justin's fascinated by the random scratches and dings in the table. He traces the tip of his index finger over and over the surface, until Chris can feel the touch on his skin, like it was for years.

"Well," Chris says. "You gotta do what you gotta do." He thinks it sounds casual enough, that he hasn't undone whatever progress they've made this week at stitching their lives back together. "It's been good, though. Thanks for coming by."

"Right." Justin's voice is clipped and short, and he pushes back from the table and walks to the kitchen door without even a handshake, and maybe Chris was wrong, because that's never happened before.

But then, Justin stops with his hand on the door. "Fuck," he says. "I swore I wasn't going to do this, but. Just, damn it, tell me what the fuck I did. Because I have been over every single thing I can remember and I don't know, I don't know what I did or what I said that pissed you off so bad that you stopped talking to me."

Chris can't breathe for a second and his heart skips a few beats with the adrenaline that's suddenly pounding through his system. He's not awake and even if he was, he's not prepared for this, he's never going to be ready to have this conversation, but Justin is standing in his doorway, a heartbeat away from walking out for good. Chris isn't sure what thread it is that's keeping him here now.

"Nothing, man," Chris finally makes himself say. "You didn't do anything." And that's true; it wasn't Justin, not really. Chris has always been very clear about that, has never let himself make it be anything other than his own fault.

"Nothing?" Justin practically spits the word out. "We've been friends since I was _fourteen _and that's the best you can do?"

This, Chris thinks, this is what he's been trying to avoid for a year, and it's all going to happen in his underwear, in the kitchen, the one his sisters have been bugging him to remodel for years now.

"I, no, you didn't do anything," Chris repeats. "I needed some, I don't know, I needed some space." Again, that's the literal truth; when he left, it was because he couldn't be around anyone, not without major trouble erupting, but Chris can see Justin is only getting angrier.

"Eight years of being friends, seven years of, of whatever the fuck you want to call what we were, and you stop calling me back? Without any kind of a reason and that fucking lame explanation? Tell me how that works without it being anyone's fault, Kirkpatrick, because from where I'm standing, you're a goddamned liar."

"Yeah, well, see, that's where you'd be wrong," Chris snaps. "That would be where you just have to have a reason, and if there isn't one, you can feel free to start assigning blame."

"Goddamn it," Justin snarls. "Tell me what the fuck happened and I'll walk out and let you get back to your life."

"That's what you're going to do anyway," Chris says, just as nasty. "Isn't it? Isn't that what you've been doing? It's a two-way street, baby. I haven't heard a word in how many months?"

Chris knows that shot was nowhere near fair, because he dodged dozens of calls before Justin gave up, but there's no stopping his mouth sometimes. Justin, of all people, should know that, but all the fight, the anger, the righteous indignation goes out of him. "Isn't that what you want?" he asks quietly. "You don't want me here; hell, you can't even talk to me on the phone." He scrubs his hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever it was I did, and I'm sorry about this scene, and I'm just. Sorry," he says, voice dull and flat.

Chris looks across the room at Justin, backlit by the sharp, unforgiving Florida morning sun, and can't remember why he's been telling himself it would be easier to stay away.

"There's not," Chris starts. You don't have anything to apologize for. You just, grew up, and I knew that was going to happen, I told myself that every damn day, but I..." If he's not careful, he's going to blow any chance at salvaging even a civil relationship, but Justin hasn't left yet so he keeps going. "When I figured it out, I..." _Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, ran like a fucking coward, c'mon, man,_ Chris thinks. _Pick one._

"Left?" Justin finishes for him. "I still don't--"

"Yeah," Chris says. "I left, and yeah, it was shitty, and I'm, I'm sorry."

"Okay," Justin says slowly. "Now I know you're shitting me." He doesn't sound angry anymore, just stubborn. He comes back into the room and sits down at the table, never taking his eyes off Chris. "Finish it, all right?"

"J, it's not what you're thinking, okay? You didn't do or say anything, I just finally opened my eyes and saw what was happening, how good you were together, and--"

"This is about you walking in on me and Cameron?" Justin's voice is startled, disbelieving, but with that edge he gets when he knows he's right. "It is, isn't it?"

He's pushing now, and Chris can't think of one single thing to say that will distract or deflect him.

"You had that thing, you left the next morning, and Trace said you were in a mood, but, I, man, I still don't get it, it's not like it was the first time something like that's happened, and it sure as hell wasn't that you'd never seen my ass before. I mean, what? Cam didn't have a fit or anything..."

"No," agrees Chris. "You just threw a pillow at me and told me to get the fuck out, and that was it."

And it had been. It was nothing to get hopped up over, it wasn't as if he had ever let him and Justin be anything exclusive, not even when Justin had been fourteen and crushing hard. It had been just one more time one of them had stumbled over the other, another story to be shared, at least until Chris had gone to bed that night and closed his eyes and seen, over and over, the same ten seconds of long, long legs tangled together and the flex of the angel across Justin's back, heard the familiar shuddery gaspmoan and the even more intimate laugh and murmurs, and realized that this wasn't a dancer or a hook-up or a one night stand or even a pretty, young love. This was Justin, falling for someone, someone Chris could see him building something with, someone Chris knew he should let him build something with. Everything had been laid out in front of him, and knowing that he'd had all of that was ashes in his mouth when he thought how easily he'd let it go.

"So, what?" Justin says impatiently. "You left? And you were so offended you stopped answering your phone when you saw any of my numbers?" Justin sits across from him, unmoving, and Chris perversely wishes for the hair-trigger temper to send him out into the morning, away from Chris and all his fucked-up stupidity.

"No," Chris says again. "Not offended. Angry." Justin narrows his eyes and Chris knows one word in the right direction and he'll get his wish, Justin will lose it and be gone. He chooses his words carefully, because it turns out he doesn't want that after all. "At myself."

Justin lets the words sit there, staring at Chris, silent and unblinking.

"For?" he finally asks.

"For not knowing what I was giving away until you were gone."

Justin looks at Chris another long moment, and there's so much anger in his gaze Chris can't believe that all he ultimately does is get up and walk out of the kitchen, closing the door quietly behind him.

***

Chris sits until the smell of stale coffee nauseates him, then drags himself back upstairs to shower. He's got the whole damn family coming for a birthday pool party; there's no way his mom will let him off the hook. He'll just have to think of a good reason why he's not going to be able to be in the kitchen for more than a minute at a time. Tearing the place apart is looking like a damn good idea right about now. Especially since he can use it as an excuse to go down to Miami for a couple of weeks while a contractor makes the room look completely different.

Chris focuses on that while he goes through the automatic motions of getting ready for the family invasion. He clears the last of the previous night's trash from around the pool and is stuffing the bag down into one of the overflowing cans in the garage when he hears a basketball hit the concrete of the driveway. He sighs and goes to run off whatever neighborhood kid has come over to play and nearly ends up tripping over his own feet when he sees that it's Justin shooting one j after another, six balls on the rack and then chasing them down and starting over again.

Justin notices him, Chris knows he has, but ignores him in favor of an elaborate focus on form and follow-through. It's petty, but Chris can't help snorting as Justin misses every damn shot. He waits until the rack is empty and then moves to pick up the balls closest to him. Justin meets him at the rack and takes a ball out of his hand.

"We talked about that, about Cameron," Justin says.

"Yeah, we did," Chris answers, and watches the ball arc through the hoop, nothing but net. He hands Justin another ball.

"I _asked_ you, man. I flat-out asked you what we were, what you wanted us to be." Justin takes a deep breath, then squares up and shoots again, and it's another perfect shot, soft and full of touch. "I know I took a lot for granted, but that part, I think I got right."

"I was there, yeah? I remember."

"You fucking hated that conversation; you put me through hell for even bringing the subject up, like I couldn't leave well enough alone." Justin's tone is conversational, but Chris isn't fooled. He's two steps away from having all hell break loose on him, and he couldn't care less, because this kind of hell he can handle, and he's been stupid to think it was better not happening.

"I did, you deserved it, and you couldn't." Chris can't explain the sudden lightness inside him; it's not like anything has changed. He can hear Justin grinding his teeth though, so he finishes. "I know, Justin. I _know_. I knew it then, that night, all right?"

Silently, Justin works his way through the rest of the rack, shooting the last four balls and wandering off to collect them. "I probably owe Cam an apology," he says, and lets the first ball roll off his fingers to drop through the net cleanly. "Then again, it wasn't pretty once she figured it out, so maybe I don't."

"Figured what out?"

Justin smiles. "Yeah, that I was what I couldn't have told you, not until yesterday, when I went home from here so fucking strung out from how wrong this week's been that I cleaned out my garage instead of sleeping."

"And the answer you found in your garage was?"

"That she was what I could have, not what I wanted." Justin's left his jacket on the ground by the garage, and Chris watches a slow bead of sweat move down his neck, creeping closer to the black 'beater he's wearing because otherwise he's going to think he's dreaming. If he wakes up right now, aching and hard and alone, it's not going to surprise him at all.

But Justin's still there, dribbling the basketball, so Chris plays along. "That's why you were leaving?"

"No," Justin says. "I was leaving because I didn't recognize who we were." Chris looks up, and Justin shrugs a little, but meets his eyes easily. "We've been mad before--I swear, man, there have been a couple of times that I hated you, and I know that you've come pretty damn close to decking me but I always _knew_ you."

"You still do, J." There's a lot more Chris wants to, needs to, say, but his mom's car is pulling in and there's no time.

Justin drags tables out, hauls ice for the beer, flips burgers, whatever Chris needs him to do, without ever being asked, exactly like he's been doing, except that he fits now, or maybe it's that Chris is letting him fit. They're good at putting up fronts, so now they're the only two who notice the difference, but it's there and it's real and Chris is breathing for the first time in what feels like forever.

***

The party breaks up when the birthday boy, who's all of three, decides that he can swim with the big kids, and walks unconcernedly into the deep end of the pool. Ten adults within grabbing distance, but it's Justin who hits the water first, boots, jeans and all, and hauls him back up. Little man is completely oblivious, just happy to be in the water. Everyone in Chris's family operates under the less-fuss-the-better theory of child rearing, so it's all fairly calm considering the kid had to be pulled up off the bottom of the pool.

Chris kneels down so he can take the little guy out of Justin's arms and hand him off to be passed down to his dad. Even after he gets out of the water, Justin's looking a little wild around the eyes, not being quite up to speed with the no harm-no foul attitude, so Chris pushes him toward the house and the shower and turns back to wrap things up.

***

When Chris comes inside from throwing his family out, Justin hasn't made it past the kitchen. Chris hasn't been celibate during the past year, far from it, but he's not blind. Every nerve in his body sits up and takes notice of Justin sitting at the table, jeans dripping onto the tile floor as he shivers in the air conditioning.

Chris detours to the laundry room to snag a towel off the stack sitting on the dryer and hands it to Justin as he crouches down to work at the soaking wet laces on his boots.

"He's okay, right?"

"He's fine, he has no idea there was even anything to be scared about." Chris can't decide whether to laugh at the still slightly freaked expression on Justin's face or shove him onto the table and tear his clothes off. Either one seems wrong, given the fragile understanding they've only just managed to reach, so Chris concentrates on the boots and grimly ignores the way Justin's clothes are plastered to his body. It's not as if he hasn't seen Justin naked before; he should be able to deal with this, and he will, even if he has to think about road kill to do it.

"What now?" Justin asks, and Chris's head snaps up at the tired, almost beaten tone. "Second thoughts?"

"No," Chris says. "I was--"

"Then fucking _what_ is with the distance already?" Justin leans back and works a Swiss Army knife out of the pocket of his jeans. He slaps Chris's hand away and saws at the hopelessly knotted laces.

"Well, first, I was trying to be polite, and not laugh at your drowned ass," Chris says. "Since it was the result of a worthy effort and all, which was obviously a waste of time."

Justin's hand tightens on the knife and he cuts through the first lace with a vicious tug.

"And then," Chris continues, "I was trying to be a good host, and reminding myself to think about getting you out of the wet boots rather than about getting you out of the rest of the wet clothes and fucking you on my kitchen table."

Justin freezes, then, hands still wrapped around the knife and his shoes, looks up at Chris. Chris shrugs and adds, ""Especially seeing as how I'm not exactly sure what it is that you want."

You said, you said you gave me away," Justin eventually says, looking down to cut carefully through the second lace. Chris finds himself watching with equal concentration. "Can I give myself back to you?"

Justin finally looks up, and his eyes are clear even if his hands are shaking. Chris takes the knife away and carefully closes it before he puts it on the table. "Yeah," he says, and thinks he should be saying something not so mundane, but then Justin smiles and it doesn't matter at all.

***

Two months into the hiatus, Chris had the bathroom off the kitchen remodeled, doubling it in size, because it was the one that everyone hanging out around the pool used. He'd gone a little nuts with it, done a little more than was strictly necessary for the fifth bathroom in the house, but now, with the waterfall shower raining hot water onto his head and Justin's mouth even hotter on his skin, Chris can only think that he's gotten some sort of cosmic reward for not being cheap.

Chris can't stop touching, can't keep his hands from moving restlessly over the close-cropped hair Justin's wearing now, down the strong column of his neck, over his shoulders and arms and back. Justin arches into his touch with subtle shifts of muscles, encouraging Chris but never moving enough to disturb the perfect rhythm he's established with his mouth. Chris isn't remotely a fan of shower sex-too many hard surfaces to impact--but Justin had been freezing and the bathroom was right there, and there really wasn't much question what was going to happen once Justin had peeled off the wet beater and jeans.

Chris has spent endless months telling himself this wouldn't ever happen again, and now that it is, it's playing out in a way that's almost unreal. Justin has never been hesitant about taking the lead, not even when he was by rights not old enough to be doing anything with anyone, much less Chris, but tonight, it's as though he can't let go and step back. Chris is fine with that, in theory, and he has absolutely no complaints about the way Justin is working him over, but he can't quite reconcile this Justin with the one he thought he knew so well.

Justin hasn't been celibate either, but Chris can feel the bruises starting on his hips where Justin is holding him. It strikes him as wrong, that Justin should be so desperate about him, of all people, wrong enough that it's not hard at all for Chris to stop him, no matter how fucking fantastic he is with his mouth.

When Justin looks up at him, blinking through lashes spiky and dark with water, Chris pants, "Slow, slow." Justin shakes his head a little, as if he's coming out of a daze, and Chris eases down to his knees. The water strikes with more force down low, and it's beating hard on his neck and shoulders as he leans in and holds Justin's face so he can catch Justin's mouth with his own.

Justin murmurs, low and satisfied, and Chris drinks it down, tasting and feeling and relearning everything he can. Justin wraps his arms around Chris, pulling him closer and closer still but the desperate edge is gone, and Chris is left with the heat and strength and determination of the Justin he knows and remembers and never truly allowed to be a part of him before.

***

"It wasn't just that, was it?" Justin says, later. "There was more, yeah?" The sheets on Chris's bed are cool and crisp in the small amount of space that Justin doesn't occupy. Chris grunts, not in the least expecting Justin to accept the non-answer, and not really wanting him to, but unable not to try it. Justin lays his hand on Chris's back, lightly, and Chris finds it easier than he'd ever thought possible to accept that he wants it there forever. Justin laughs, and it almost sounds happy, or, at least, not completely fucked up. "What am I saying? Of course there's more, there's always more."

Chris turns his head so he can look at Justin, because after a year of silence, they deserve at least that much. Justin's eyes are steady on his. "I shouldn't have had you to begin with," Chris says.

"Yeah, that's what I thought it would be," Justin says quietly. "Who should have had me?"

Chris looks away, and Justin says, "No. Tell me who would have been better."

"Anybody," Chris says, and repeats it when Justin shakes his head fiercely. "Don't. Stop kidding yourself, J. It wasn't _right_ then, and just because we're here now doesn't mean you can say it wasn't a bad idea."

Chris expects sturm und drang, drama and emotion, but what he gets is Justin's hand rubbing low and soothing across his back. "Yes, I can," Justin says, stubborn to the end. "And _this_," he fits himself around and on top of Chris, "is exactly why I can say it. I picked you then, and I was too stupid or scared or young to make you understand it was for real, but yeah, we're here now, and it feels more right than anything else you can think of."

Chris tries his damnedest to make Justin understand, talks himself hoarse, because this is the first time they've ever said stuff about anything, and there's seven years worth of it in his brain. There are a lot of truths that need to be out there, hard truths, whatever Justin wants to believe. Chris says them as blunt and ugly as he can. Justin's listening, because he's nodding occasionally, murmuring agreement and disagreement, but wraps himself closer and doesn't let Chris pull away. In the end, when Chris is talked out, Justin's still there and all he says is, "Later."

After that, there doesn't seem to be anything else for Chris to do but listen to his even breathing and fall asleep half-under him.

***

 

The next morning, Justin is up at an obscene hour, showering and brushing his teeth and clattering up and down the stairs to make coffee and then drink it while sitting at Chris' desk and staring unblinkingly at Chris. Chris swears he's gotten even noisier in the past year. Chris watches him from under the pillow, until Justin throws pencil after pencil at Chris and says, "I know you're awake, ass. Let's ride?"

Chris doesn't even have to think about it. "Now," he says, sitting up and taking the mug of coffee Justin's holding out to him. "Before it gets too hot." It's been a long time since he's been out, much less out with Justin. He rolls out of bed, and goes to find some clothes, remembering that Justin showed up the previous day on one of his stock bikes. That used to mean he was riding rough and didn't want to mess up one of the custom ones. Chris isn't sure it doesn't just mean that Justin doesn't care anymore, but he finds his own leathers, in case they do go off-road and he ends up having to lay the bike down.

When Chris gets down to the kitchen, Justin has turned off the coffeemaker and rinsed out the mugs. He waits on his bike while Chris locks the door and sets the alarm and backs two cars out of the garage so he can get to the bike he wants. Justin even pulls one of the cars back into the garage while Chris moves the other, and shows impressive patience by not voicing any of the dozens of bitchy comments Chris sees dancing across his face while Chris gets settled.

When Chris finally says, "Yeah, let's go," Justin nods and kicks his bike to life. They pull out onto the street and Chris lets Justin take the lead. With no intercom, Chris can't ask where they're going but Justin presumably has a plan and a destination and even if he doesn't, Chris is pretty sure it's past time for him to shut up and let Justin take care of things for a while.


End file.
